


Sure Shot, or, In Which Lestrade Wearing A Shepherdess Outfit Is of No Consequence

by redscudery



Series: Scudery's Saturday Night Fic Fest [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Again, Alcohol, Anderson and his horse fetish, Bisexual John, Bisexual Lestrade, Body Shots, Boys Kissing, Costume Parties & Masquerades, First Kiss, Fluff, Halloween, Johnlock Fluff, Kissing, M/M, OOC Sherlock, Party Games, Poor Anderson, Sherlock is a Brat, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Virgin Sherlock, at least a bit, they're not drunk though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 21:38:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock storms into the middle of the Yard Halloween party to find John, but there are consequences. </p><p>That the consequences are body shots and awkward kissing bother Sherlock much less than he would have thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sure Shot, or, In Which Lestrade Wearing A Shepherdess Outfit Is of No Consequence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoubleNegative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleNegative/gifts).



> This is for @doublenegative, who won my 400-follower giveaway prize and gave me the prompt "Take me home". This was supposed to be a 221b, but, once again, it raged out of control.
> 
> Also, thanks to HiddenLacuna for the liquor suggestion! I didn't manage to work in "Surprise, motherfucker, you're drunk", but it's on my list for future fics.

     Though he had always considered Halloween to be insufferable (not to say insufferably American), when Sherlock walked into the Bee and Bell and saw John, his unscarred shoulder bare, in a Roman gladiator costume, he very nearly changed his mind.

“What are you dressed as, Sherlock?” John started to ask, but he was interrupted by Sally--resplendent as Cleopatra—muttered “Didn’t know you could buy pretentious git costumes.”

“Stop sniping, Sally, it’s Hallowe’en,” Lestrade said, “However, Sherlock, you do realize that there is a forfeit for coming in here without a costume.”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock said, still looking at John, “I am entirely disinterested in this arbitrary assignation of holiday-related rules to a neutral space.”

“You haven’t heard what it is, yet.” Lestrade said, uncharacteristically smug, especially for someone wearing a shepherdess costume.

“Very well. Though I don’t propose to abide by it.”

“You have to take a shot.”

“Gosh, how wonderfully original.”

“A body shot.”

“Wha..from who? Not that it matters, because that’s just ridiculous.”

Lestrade grinned. Sherlock ignored it.

“From whoever is standing on your left.”

Sherlock didn’t have to turn to know who that was. He was just grateful that Lestrade had already gone to get a shot instead of gloating.

“I’m ticklish,” John said, though his voice was coming from very far away. Auditory illusion, Sherlock thought almost helplessly.

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Here we are-a little Goldschlager.” Lestrade came back grinning.

“You know, I must congratulate you, Lestrade. Usually costumes are incredibly revealing-look at Sally’s will to power, and Anderson’s unconscious desire for the bestial (Anderson was wearing a horse costume)-but you! You have successfully chosen a costume that only shows that whatever taste you have—which is none, by the way, if we take your gray shoes into account-is entirely unidentifiable.”

“Cheers, Sherlock. Now let’s get you set up.”

“Very well,” Sherlock said, reaching for the glass.

“Oh, no. That’s too easy. John?”

“If I must.” John said, and came forward to perch on the edge of the table.

“Shoulder forward,” Lestrade said, and, stepping into John’s space, he balanced the glass in the hollow of John’s collarbone.

“On the other hand, Lestrade, your heterosexuality does seem to be slipping a bit,” Sherlock said, then was suddenly appalled by the tone of his own voice.

“That’d be a trick,” Lestrade said calmly, “since I never had it to slip.” John laughed outright at this, and the glass nearly tipped over. Sherlock swiftly moved in and held it where it was, effectively elbowing Lestrade out of the way.

“Come on then,” John said, “if you’re in such a hurry.” He looked up at Sherlock from under his eyelashes.

“In a hurry to end this ridiculous charade.” Sherlock muttered. What right did John have to have eyelashes? Distracting things. He shook his head and breathed in. Calm. Steady.

As he bent his head towards the glass, he was conscious of the curious eyes of Lestrade’s whole division, but as he got closer, they faded away and there was only John. The cinnamon scent of the liquor seemed to be part of him, mingling with the clean scent of the cheap soap John favoured.

Their cheeks brushed. Sherlock settled his face carefully between John’s head and shoulder, then took the shot glass between his lips. His ear was firmly against John’s face now, and he shivered with surprise at the coolness of John’s skin. John himself was unmoving, but Sherlock felt his breathing speed up to match his own. They stayed frozen for the space of a breath, then Sherlock tilted his head back and swallowed the drink.

The applause from the group was scattered. Dimmock was staring, Sally rolled her eyes, and Lestrade looked at them appraisingly.

“I’ll be going now,” Sherlock said, suddenly desperate to be gone.

“I’ll join you.” John, looking flushed, reached for his coat.

“I’ll bet.” Anderson muttered.

“Sod off, Anderson,” John said curtly.

“Do that,” Sherlock said, suddenly feeling better, and followed John from the bar.

Sherlock had taken three huge strides towards Baker Street when he realized that John was not following, but standing on the pavement struggling with his coat.

“Damn thing is definitely not made to be worn with armor,” he said ruefully, looking up at Sherlock again.

Eyelashes, Sherlock thought, and then he leaned forward and kissed John on the mouth.

John jumped as their lips came together. It was rougher than Sherlock had expected; he’d clearly miscalculated the force he’d needed. Next time, he’d know not to keep looking at the eyelashes, he supposed, as he tried to recover. He felt John’s lips open under his- success? He opened his own mouth and…

“Sherlock!” Instead of kissing him more deeply, John had stepped back and was looking at him with an expression that Sherlock couldn’t immediately place. Time to retreat.

“I needed to know just how potent that alcohol was, John. Can you taste cinnamon?”

The undefinable expression intensified.

“Oh, Sherlock.” John said. Sherlock took a step back, but John took two forward, and suddenly he was nearly in Sherlock’s arms, “You are a massive arse.”

“Possibly.” Sherlock was too unnerved by John’s closeness--how was he so warm now? Clearly some kind of physiological glitch--oh!

John had taken Sherlock’s face into his hands. Cool hands. The touch this time was tentative and Sherlock felt the tremor in John’s body.

“John?” Sherlock whispered.

“Yes?” John answered, and Sherlock breathed in the bitterness of the beer he’d been drinking.

“I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“I know.”

“Please,” Sherlock whispered--or thought he did--and John’s lips were on his. Just the right amount of force, Sherlock thought, as John brushed his whole mouth along Sherlock’s, then, by some magic, slid his top lip between Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock’s whole world narrowed to that one sensation; he stood utterly  unmoving as John nipped and nibbled what Sherlock had previously considered to be a simply useful part of himself. It was, he thought, entirely unfair that he could know the number of nerve receptors in mucous membranes such as the lips, but at the same time be entirely unaware of the potential of these receptors. 

And then the lovely sensation went away.

“Sherlock?” John drew back and looked at him with concern, “You okay? Should I stop?”

“Stop,” Sherlock said, and watched, not a little gratified, as John’s face fell. 

“Right then,” John said, and stepped away. 

“John?”

“Yes?” 

“Take me home.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just can’t leave Anderson alone. Please note that his name is Philip, and please note that Philip means “lover of horses.” So you can talk about dinosaurs all you like, but I believe that Anderson spends a lot of free time hanging around stables. 
> 
> Also, follow me on tumblr (redscudery.tumblr.com) if you like, because there's still another prize to be won. My 421st follower gets a story all to themselves as well!


End file.
